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It was almost impossible for Holmes to keep his emotions in check as he strode down the streets toward Baker Street. A swirl of feeling threatened to engulf him as he walked. Pain. Grief. Numbness. Whoever would have thought that it was possible to feel so much and so little at the same time?
"I have a job for you, Wiggins." Holmes had looked at the young man with a feeling of something that resembled regret. Gone were the days when a shilling could entice Davey Wiggins into performing a task for him. And yet, the boy remained totally willing to remain at his side and do whatever he asked. Surely he didn't deserve such kindness.
"What is it, Mr. Holmes?" He could see the bright eagerness in the young man as he tasted the idea of a potential task on his tongue.
"I need you to get the Irregulars together. We have to hunt down a murderer."
Wiggins just smiled, his surprisingly white teeth seeming to gleam in the sunlight.
He moved past the questioning Mrs. Hudson without a word as he entered the flat, moving into the sitting room and slamming the door behind him, knowing that she wouldn't follow. He approached the map that they had been creating with a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach because he knew what he would find. He removed the dust cover and cast it aside, revealing the vast piece of paper marked with scribbles, circles, lines, and colors.
This map had been their project for the past few days. It was incredibly detailed; an example of Wiggins's street smarts that had been acquired over the years. Every street, alley and niche in London was on this piece of paper; common knowledge to those who had made their homes in the dingy underworld of the city.
"Are you absolutely certain, Wiggins?" Holmes could barely contain his own excitement; the young man's eagerness didn't exactly help.
"Absolutely, Mr. Holmes. But me and the boys want to check it out a bit further. There's still things that we wants to know."
"No." There had been no resignations in his voice when he spoke. "I forbid you to go back there until the Yard has had a chance to look around. It's too dangerous."
"But Mr. Holmes, we know what we's doing. We'll be fine."
"Wiggins -"
But Wiggins was gone without another word and Holmes was left shaking his head.
His eyes traveled to the spot that he knew Wiggins had meant. The answer was so incredible that he had dismissed it as being impossible. But Wiggins had a certain quality about him that didn't allow him to believe that anything was impossible. Against the better judgment of Holmes, Wiggins had decided to take the Irregulars into the belly of the beast and find out the answer to this puzzle once and for all.
Wiggins must have figured it out. But in the process, he alerted the killers. Somehow, they had been able to get the V. Cholerae bacterium into his system. It wouldn't have surprised him to discover that they had been on his tail. But if Wiggins hadn't realized who they were….
'I should have stopped them,' he thought to himself quietly.
Holmes swallowed hard before mentally shaking himself and observing the map once more. He took a deep breath and decided that it was time for this killer to be brought to justice. No matter what the cost. Because now, this murderer had reached a new level. This case had just touched him personally. And no one should be able to harm the ones who were closest to him. Not without paying for it with their own life.
Lestrade banged his fist against the desk and let out a growl of frustration. He had spent the better part of the past hour analyzing police reports, hoping to discover some pattern in the outbreak of the disease. But no luck. He'd had men patrolling every major street corner, alley, and entrance into the city. So why couldn't they find what they sought?
Admittedly, an epidemic on this scale was not unusual for London. But the fact that it was being deliberately caused absolutely frightened all involved. There was no getting around this fact anymore.
Holmes apparently had had a visitor who provided some kind of evidence that boosted this theory. But deliberate attempts on the lives of hundreds…what kind of person were they dealing with?
There was a brief knock on the door and Inspector Gregson came in with a stack of papers.
"Fresh police reports," he stated, tossing them down on the desk with a look of disgust. "But I don't think that you'll find anything in there that we didn't already know."
Lestrade gritted his teeth. "This is pointless, Gregson," he growled. "We've been scouring the city for days, using up precious manpower, and for what? What have we uncovered? Nothing."
"That may be so," admitted Gregson. "But I don't think that we should give up on this now."
"Why not?" demanded Lestrade, wincing as he grabbed the stack of papers too quickly, resulting in a twinging paper cut. He growled at the pain, shaking the blood from his thumb so that little scarlet droplets sprayed the pages of the reports.
"Well, there's the public to consider, isn't there?" said Gregson. "They're all terrified and for good reason. Isn't it better for the Yard to look like they're actually trying to put a stop to all this? What else can we do?"
Lestrade sighed. "I suppose you're right. But it will look equally bad if we don't make any progress. How are you supposed to catch a lunatic poisoner?"
"Well," Gregson paused for a moment, considering. "He has to be in a position to contaminate the water supply, presumably, because the disease is transferred by ingestion. And he's able to contaminate many different wells all over the city. We know that because the epidemic seems to be so random."
"So what does that tell us?"
"Well, for one thing it tells us that he knows his way around the city. He's in a position to know how to go about his business without getting caught, which suggests that he's the kind of person who's not easily noticed."
"That helps us all so much, Gregson. All we have to do now is arrest every bloody person who's not easily noticed in the city and we've got our man." drawled Lestrade sarcastically.
"Here me out, old boy," said Gregson, calmingly patting Lestrade's arm. He was used to Lestrade's infrequent bursts of temper. Lestrade just glared at him. "All you have to do is -"
Gregson was interrupted by a rapid knocking on the door. "Come in!" called Lestrade irritably. "And get a move on."
The door opened to reveal Sherlock Holmes. The face of the taller man was grim and pale and he clutched a thin roll of paper in his left hand. "Inspector Lestrade," he said bleakly by way of greeting.
"What do you want, Holmes?" asked Lestrade, rising from his desk and crossing his arms in annoyance. "I'm in the middle of an important investigation, you know. An investigation that you have offered very little help with. I can't handle this on my own. You have to give us something. We're coming up dry and you know it!"
"Wiggins is dead."
Lestrade froze at the sound of the words. Three words. Three words that had the ability to crush his heart and steal his breath. Wiggins? Dead? Was it even possible?
"I'm sorry, Holmes." said Gregson quietly, apparently able to recover from the shock a great deal more readily than his companion. "How did it happen?"
"He was the latest victim," said Holmes through clenched teeth. "This disease has run loose for far too long. It's time for the reign to end."
"What exactly do you propose, Holmes?" snapped Lestrade, apparently having regained his cool. "We're doing the best we can."
Holmes didn't say a word but slammed his clenched fist onto the desk and threw the roll onto the wood. "It's all there." he said dangerously. "Everything you need to catch your man."
"Aren't you going to help us?" asked Gregson. "This isn't like you to abandon a case just before the chase."
"That was before, Gregson." said Holmes, turning to leave. "I want nothing more to do with this until you catch the culprit. And when you do, I want to speak with him. Personally."
"What have you done, Holmes?" asked Gregson, crossing his arms. "What really happened to Wiggins?"
Holmes paused for a split second, not turning around. Then he left the room without a word. Gregson watched him go and then turned back to face Lestrade, who was the in process of unrolling the paper. "What is it?"
Lestrade didn't answer for a moment. Together, the two of them stared at the paper. It appeared to be a map of sorts, scribbled with lines, dots and circles. He sucked in his breath sharply as realization smacked him over the head like a club. He looked up at Gregson and saw the same understanding in the other man's eyes. The same solid determination. And the same need for action. The game was on and this sickening serial killer would hang. The sooner, the better.